I stayed home from church that Sunday.
My husband kissed me goodbye and whispered, “I’m so sorry, love.”
I waved to the family and then sat down with a cup of coffee and a few wayward tears still staining my cheeks. I didn’t long to be alone, but I also knew it was okay. I could use the time to stop the hurrying of thoughts in my mind. It would be good for me to not have to think about how my reactions would affect everyone else.
It might have been the uncomfortableness and the blood that kept me home, but it was also just time for me to talk with God about where I was and what this new onslaught of grief would mean for me.
Hope is an interesting thing.
For almost 12 years, I assumed that every pregnancy I had would result in miscarriage.
Then our miracle baby arrived in 2019 with a problem-free pregnancy and a new kind of hope started growing. Maybe, just maybe, I was done saying goodbye to babies too early.
But here I was holding myself together while the newest baby I’d conceived bled out of my body.
“I didn’t want to ever do this again,” I said to the Lord, right outloud, right in my living room, right there with all the sadness stretching through my body and my heart and my mind.
But regardless of what I wanted to happen, this was my reality.
This wasn’t my first miscarriage, but it was a new experience for me at the same time.
It was new because there was the comfort of a toddler to snuggle, something I’d never had. But there was also a starkness that came with that toddler.
The assumption that this baby would also be okay, and then experiencing death, meant I wasn’t braced for impact. I keep feeling these weights drop on me when I look at the dates. I would have been 3 months along today. We probably would have started sharing with close friends. We would have started talking about names. Mary Kate would have LOVED being a big sister.
And here’s the truth: I don’t have any great things to share at this point.
But I share it just the same, because it’s part of this story I’ve been writing for so many years in this space. The story of grief and hope and miracles.
And having experienced the miracle doesn’t mean you get to live forever in that space.
The cycles continue.
And in each place–no matter how many times you circle back to them–you can know the Lord’s presence and grace.
So I whisper this to all of you who are tasting grief in your life right now: I’m here too. And it’s hard. So hard. And God is still here.
Sometimes that’s all we can know.
But it’s enough.